


Superior Ability Breeds Superior Ambition

by kageillusionz



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Blackmail, But not quite, Cryogenics, Firefly References, M/M, Made Up Science and Technology, Separations, Spaceships, Star Trek: Into Darkness, The Markos are Giant Bags of Dicks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/pseuds/kageillusionz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of lost and found, determination, and a love that spans the centuries and galaxies.</p>
<p>[Aka: Star Trek: Into Darkness AU-ish]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superior Ability Breeds Superior Ambition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikeracity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/gifts).



> To my dearest wubby! I started this fic some time last year and then shelved it for a while when it wasn't going where I wanted it to go. But I've dusted it off, polished it up a little, and here it is :D I hope you enjoy! Here's to many more years to come~
> 
> Title taken from a quote in the episode "Space Seed" where Spock says: " _Superior ability breeds superior ambition._ "

**one.**

_Captain’s Log, stardate 48680.7: A week prior, a raiding Reaver warship located the_ _Londinium_ _on the outskirts of the Alpha Quadrant. Efforts to throw them off have thus far been fruitless. Our weapons appear to be ineffective against their shielding technology, and if this continues for much longer, our days are numbered..._

 

Lieutenant Commander Charles Xavier of the Starship _Londinium_ , Alumni of Science Ops and Valedictorian of Graduating Class 1989, stands frozen upon the bridge. Cold sweat mingling with fear in his gut.

The _Londinium_ shakes violently as the enemy continues firing. Dull thok thok noises echo throughout the empty corridors swathed in emergency red. Their shields are holding up, but just barely. The warship sits front and center on the main viewscreen, an intimidating presence with the hull of their ship painted in distinct stripes of red. Blood from their victims, Charles’ mind helpfully supplies.

Charles shakes himself, pushing the sound of the metal carriage creaking ominously out of his mind. The crew needs him to focus. Erik needs him to focus. Every last second he can wrestle from the claws of the Reaver warship is a small uncelebrated victory.

His fingers fly over the interface. The damage to the _Londinium_ is extensive and he does his best to mitigate the damage. His heart thuds in his chest, eyes frantically roving the information in front of him. The engine can only hold out for so long, can only produce so much more power. Charles can only send out his apologies to the crew members that hadn’t survived the blasts before the evacuations began. Amongst the dead is the former Captain of the _Londinium_ and his twin, Cassandra.

Now... Now, Charles is the only one left. The last surviving member of the Xavier family. That chilling thought makes Charles pause. His entire body shakes and the tips of his fingers are ice-cold, numb. Shock. He must be going into shock.  

It is time he can ill afford to lose on a psychological reaction. The _Londinium_ rocks again, but Charles can barely feel it.

“—rles… Charles! _Schieße_ — Don’t make me come up there and drag you to the cryodeck, Charles!”

Panic. Funny that. He’s never heard Erik panick before. Commander Erik Lehnsherr, XO of the _Londinium_ , and one of the finest cadets that Starfleet has ever produced has _never_ panicked.

“Answer me, Charles!”

He quickly taps at his combadge; bless Hank McCoy and his genius mind. “Erik. I’m here. I’m fine. I’m alive.” For now. Charles keeps an eye on the energy levels. The engines were almost out. A few more minutes and then there would be nothing left to sustain the shields. He lets out a staggered sigh, his hand fisting against the interface. Will that be long enough for them to escape? Will they manage to sneak past the warship? Will they—

Charles doesn’t dare allow himself to hope.

“We only have a few minutes left, five at most. Engine’s about to go. I don’t think there’s anything I can do to prolong—”

“Come,” Erik cuts him off. The _Londinium_ is doomed and there is nothing Charles could do.

Charles hesitates, his eyes taking in the bridge. It’s awfully lonely being the only one there when normally. “— I should stay. A Captain would—” If she was still alive, Cassandra would stay behind. Go down with the ship like the maritime captains that once sailed through the oceans and seas of Earth.

“But you aren’t the Captain of the _Londinium_ ,” Erik reasons. “You can’t stay behind. I won’t let you. I _outrank_ you and I order you to get to the cryoshuttle.”

“—If the Reavers hadn’t attacked, and Cassie—”

“We are not doing this now, Charles. I can’t have this argument with you. You’ve done everything you can for the _Londinium_. We have to get the crew out. They need us.” There’s a moment, one that can’t have lasted for more than a heartbeat but feels like eternity. “I need you.”

Erik’s admission startles Charles into action. He directs the last of the _Londinium’s_ reserve energy, draining the last of the life support into prolonging the life of the shields, and then his legs take him towards the elevator.

The image of the lone command chair facing the viewscreen. The bridge is dark except for the soft glow coming from the information displays. It’s seared into Charles’ retinas before the doors hiss closed for the last time.

“Hey Erik. Talk to me?”

“About what? Where are you?”

“I’ve left the bridge now…” The cryoshuttle is located ventralside of _Londinium_ and is designed to slip away quickly and quietly. The main hull of the vessel will hopefully shield them for long enough to have a decent head start. And to get there will require a mad dash through many levels. “Erik, talk to me about anything...Tell me about what we’d be doing if we were still planetside.”

The elevator moves — slowly, far too slowly! — away from the bridge and his knees quiver, threatening to give out at any moment. Not yet, Charles sternly tells them. He has to make it to Erik first.

“Erik, if I don’t make it—”

“Don’t _say_ that. Just get your ass down here!” There’s a hint of annoyance, of impatience in Erik’s voice. A small glimmer of the Erik that Charles knows intimately.

Charles drags a hand over his face and swallows, envisioning the trek through the long winding corridors of _Londinium_ and all the common places that he’d have to go through, places that remind him of time spent with Erik, with Cassie, with Hank and other members of the crew.

“If I don’t make it,” he repeats, stomach doing acrobatics as the elevator slows down. “I love you.”

And then Charles is running to the sound of Erik’s voice. Running like Tom Hanks in that movie he dragged Erik to see during a rare break two years ago (they saw relatively little of the movie, Charles recalls). Running as if the bowels of hell will swallow him whole if he stopped. And he would be damned if the Reavers dine on his bones tonight.

The long corridor melts into the mess hall, and that then blurs into the recreation deck. His thighs ache and Charles hopes that a stitch isn’t developing in his side. He imagines Erik’s voice gets louder as he runs, not paying much attention to the words until static gives way to the smooth timbre and inflections that is like silk and velvet to his ears.

“Charles...”

The cryoshuttle doors close behind him with a loud clang. Erik stands by the door, his fingers inputting the long lockdown sequence and begins to initiate launch.

He’s safe, well, for any given value of ‘safe’ when a Reaver warship is steadily firing upon a ship with shields that are about to give out. Charles is bent over, hands balled up at his knees, panting for oxygen. The soles of his feet ache and various other muscles in his legs — hamstrings, quadriceps, calves — are quite uneager for a repeat performance.

“Is everyone...? How many are left?"

"182 excluding us."

Charles winces. That number used to be larger before they departed Earth. And now...

“We don’t have much time,” Erik says regretfully, uncharacteristically gentle. Erik no doubt equally feels that loss acutely. He leads Charles over to the last two open cryopods, the insides clinically white. Claustrophobic is the first word that comes to Charles mind as he peers inside the pod. The circuitry and various pipes ran along the length of the chamber, snugly fit against the padded bed that didn’t look particularly comfortable. Comfort, Charles supposes, isn’t a consideration when cryotech is involved.

Charles opens his mouth then closes it again.

Erik cups his face, hushes him. “I know.” He solemnly helps Charles get into the pod, pausing when Charles perches on the side and throws arms around his neck.

"Is this the end of our story?" Charles can hardly breathe.

"I wouldn't rewrite a minute of what we had." Erik sighs and leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. "When you wake up, I'll be the first person that you'll see."

Charles chuckles with a watery smile, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. "I thought I was always the optimist and you the realist..." The moment of separation had come, weighed heavily by the imminent destruction of the _Londinium_.

"Thought I'd surprise you," Erik says and plants one last lingering kiss to Charles' lips. "Lie back."

Charles wriggles into position and presses his hand against the glass after the lid falls into place. Erik answers in kind and Charles pretends that the warmth from earlier lingers. Inside the lid is a simple fingerprint scanner, one that triggers the cryogenesis as soon as the system recognizes a crew member.

There isn’t any guarantee that they will ever wake. I don't want to go, Charles thinks with his thumb hovering over the scanner.

Erik smiles encouragingly, strained as it is. Charles hates that look. "I'll see you really soon, Charles."

Something pricks his finger and then the cold settles in quickly. The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is Erik.

 

**two.**

Charles Xavier pretends Erik Lehnsherr isn’t a liar.

 

**three.**

The grass underneath his bare feet is emerald green and it tickles his skin. The sky above him the purest of aquamarine and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. He turns his face towards the sun like a flower turns towards the east in the morning, eyelids falling shut to better savour the sweet kisses from the light. The wind embraces him in a warm hug and it feels like he is drifting, floating forevermore.

“Charles…”

That’s him, he realises belatedly; his mind such a euphoric swirl that he almost forgets his own name. Charles thinks he’s alone until he sees Erik advancing up the side of the hill, a vision in ethereal white. He’s wearing in a simple white shirt that’s unbuttoned indecently and shows a tantalizing triangle of skin and white pants that appears to have been painted onto his legs. Damnably gorgeous but a welcome sight and Charles reaches a hand out towards him, beckoning his friend and lover close.

“Erik… Come join me. The sun is about to set.”

The landscape shifts around him as fluid as water. The sky is a gradient of pinks and reds that bathes the grass in hues of orange. Erik glows, backlit by the setting sun and Charles’ heart quickens, heart strings playing songs of love that courses through his veins.

Erik is beautiful.

“Not yet, Liebling.” There’s a regretful smile on Erik’s face. “But soon. I’ll see you soon.”

Charles blinks, eyebrows knitted together. From one moment to the next, Erik is gone, and with him he takes away Charles’ heart.

 

**four.**

_Beep._

 

_Beep._

 

_Beep._

 

The sound. The beeping sound is annoying and Charles makes a small snuffled sound. He tries to say ‘turn that bloody thing off’ but it only comes out as a ‘mrrrph’. Hopefully Erik will know what it means and he’ll turn the alarm off; Charles has never been much of a morning person.

All of his limbs feel heavy, stiff and it’s an uphill battle trying to get his eyelids to open. His head feels light as if his brain had been swaddled with cotton, despite the drumming behind his left eye. God. His head _hurts_.

He tries to move his hand up to his face. A little added pressure there will surely alleviate the symptoms of his hangover right? His limbs don’t budge, presumably still too drunk-heavy to be of any assistance. Almost like he had been restrained.

Charles freezes.

The smell. The smell is foreign. Not at all like the small humble alcove that had made up his and Erik’s shared home. Their bed is large, like sleeping on a cloud, and the sheets smell of detergent (as a result of many washings; Charles deserves points for enthusiasm in the bedroom). Instead, his nose tells him that the delightful concoction is the rancid stench of filtered hospital grade antiseptics mixed with the scent of sickly sweet death.

A hospital, Charles thinks as the reality of not waking up next to Erik slowly sinks in.

Charles immediately wishes to fall asleep again, to chase the coat tails of his dreams. Maybe if he doesn’t open his eyes he can pretend for a little bit longer that Erik will be beside him.

 

He’s dozing when the nurse comes in to check his vitals and Charles makes a noise as his limbs are poked and prodded at. There’s a gasp and moments later Charles feels a ripple of quiet conversation as someone else walks into his room. A doctor, Charles guesses.

“Sir? Can you open your eyes?”

Charles doesn’t want to. Underneath the thin blanket, he seeks out the familiar warmth of Erik’s body. There’s the sound of a chain moving and only when his movements are restrained does he realize that there are cuffs around his wrists. The reality of his new circumstances digs uncomfortably against his pulsepoint.

And then a new thought occurs to Charles. If they found him, then that means the rest of _Londinium_ ’s crew have also been rescued. Perhaps they are all in the adjacent rooms and it isn’t that Erik doesn’t want to keep his promise, there has been some external factor that Charles hadn’t taken into account that would prevent them from meeting again.

Energised by that thought, he pries his eyelids open.

Their mumblings are a counterpoint to the beeping of diagnostic equipment as the grey ceiling swims into focus. He blinks once, and then twice, ignoring the way his eyes feel crusty; Charles revels in being able to see.

“Someone go fetch the Captain. It says on this report that he is to be notified at once when the patient wakes.” There’s the sound of a door hissing open and then closed. A doctor’s face obnoxiously blocks out the sight of the ugly ceiling, some sort of screen hovering over her eyes. A humanoid species has discovered them then. Charles isn’t sure whether to be elated or worried.

“We’re going to sit you up.” The bed shifts underneath him as fluid as water until Charles is in a reclining position. Charles keeps the surprise off his face. He isn’t even sure what year it is. Technology is bound to have improved by leaps and bounds since the 20th century.

Charles turns his bright blue eyes to the doctor and blinks, wondering what sort of information he ought to divulge. _You’re the smartest person I know,Charles. Trust nobody_ , Erik's voice murmurs inside his head. He is at their mercy, and trust is the only thing that Charles possesses right now.

When he opens his mouth to speak, his throat seizes up and a dry croak forces its way out of his lungs. It’s followed by a dry coughing spell. “Water...” There’s some rustling and beeping, and then a small cup of ice chips materializes out of nowhere. Charles is impressed and smiles thankfully as a nurse spoons some into his mouth. The relief his parched throat feels is relaxing.

“Hello. I’m Doctor MacTaggert. Do you remember who you are?” She has a kindly smile.

“Francis,” Charles lies, frowning. “I— Where am I? What is today’s date?”

Doctor MacTaggert smiles, making some notes in her holographic datapad. “It’s the 4th October, 2247. You are on planet Earth at St Bartholomew’s in London. Do you remember anything aside from that, Francis?”

Charles mind whirls. 2247. The cryoshuttle’s systems had far exceeded his expectations; it has been almost three hundred years. The beeping increases to match his increasing heartbeat as the denial sinks in. He shakes his head to try and clear his head.

“Ahh.” Doctor MacTaggert’s face is a kaleidoscope of emotion: pity and sympathy meshing in a spiralling pattern into neutrality. She makes another note into his file.

“Could you please tell me how I came to be here, Doctor?”

“Oh! Of course. Captain Marko brought you in a month ago with symptoms of post-cryostasis—”

Marko… he doesn’t recognize the name, but he’s grateful to this Captain Marko, whoever he is, for bringing him to a hospital. Charles files the name away for later. There will be questions he would like to ask if Captain Marko is the one being summoned by the nurse.

“— scans showed there are no known abnormalities. You’re about as healthy as healthy can be. Although—” Doctor MacTaggert hesitates, her eyes darting to and fro behind the screen shielding her eyes. She taps something near her temple and the screen switches off.

“Yes?” Charles asks, blue eyes widening to add to the facade of childish wonder.

“You… remember nothing of the time, the reason for why you were placed into cryosleep?”

“No. Why, Doctor… is there something wrong? You did say I am as healthy as healthy can be...” Well, minus the restraints. Charles wishes someone would do something about that.

Doctor MacTaggert lets out a sigh. There’s a frown marring her fair face. Her eyes seem to belong to someone much older than her. Charles wonders what his own eyes look like.

“Your cells say you are from the 20th century—”

Before she can continue with her sentence, the door opens with a breathy sigh. Two men enter wearing what Charles assumes is the new Starfleet uniform: one of them is a Captain and the other a Lieutenant. From the twin sneers on their piggish faces and the identical way they swaggered into the room, Charles knew instantaneously that they were related.

"Anna. How is he doing?"

"Captain Marko. Lieutenant Marko," Doctor MacTaggert says shortly, her voice as friendly as a fistful of blades to the face. “My name is not ‘Anna’, sir. It is Doctor MacTaggert to you.”

Captain Marko shrugs rudely, uncaring and flippant, and walks up to Charles’ left side. He looms in close, far too close than is comfortable and Charles’ hackles rise in response. This is not a man to be trusted, his gut tells him. “He looks a bit pale and pasty to me. Could you give him something to put some more colour in his cheeks?”

“Francis is as healthy as any other person.”

“Well, he’s not exactly mobile, is he?” drawls Lieutenant Marko. Charles fought desperately to keep still when the Lieutenant's finger twirls around a strand of his hair. Neither of the Markos appear to understand the concept of personal space.

The corner of Doctor MacTaggert’s eye twitches, as if she also is trying to maintain her temper. “And he will, in due time. I—”

“That will be all, _Doctor_ ,” Captain Marko interjects, his hands tuck behind his back. “We wish to speak to Francis alone.”

Reluctantly, she leaves with a purse of her lips and a glance that could kill.

Charles is beginning to feel more like a prized horse in a show than a patient as the pair of Markos stare silently at him.

"What do you want with me?" Charles asks apprehensively.

The smile never leaves Captain Markos’ face, bone-chillingly insincere. "I have a proposition for you. I imagine you won't refuse given that— well. You don't have many options do you, Charles Xavier?"

Charles' eyes widens at the mention of his name. How did this man know his name? Warily he regards the pair, eyes tracking every move they make like a caged predator. Feigning ignorance apparently won't work.

"You think we wouldn't do a thorough search into your background?" The bark of laughter from the younger Marko is frightful, like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Curious that we would find an ancestor of ours, well, we say ancestry but the Marko family married into the Xavier name. So you could say we are practically family, Charlie."

"What do you want?" Charles repeats, frowning and simmering in his distrust.

"You're going to help my father become an Admiral," Lieutenant Marko says as Captain Marko pulls up a chair with the press of a button.

Captain Marko continues easily with a broad malicious grin. "Should be simple enough. You'll pose as my nephew and sign up for the Academy once you have been discharged."

“But why do you need me to do it? Surely you can pay off someone else or...”

“You were once a part of Science Ops, correct? My last contact is unfortunately — how should I put this —” Captain Marko tapped his chin. “Well, they are no longer with us shall we say. I know you are a very clever man, Charles. You finished your degree in three and a half years. I want you to finish it in two.”

"What's stopping me from running as soon as I do?" Charles asks, defiant in the face of reason.

Captain Marko regards him for a long moment, and then his slimy smile grows wider. "You have about 183 reasons, I should think."

The number makes Charles’ eyes widen. 183. The surviving _Londinium_ crew members numbered at 182, excluding himself and Erik. It's impossible that the Markos could have made that number up. And if it is a coincidence, Charles finds himself hesitating as the pathway of possibilities unfurls in front of him.

“Oh yes. We know who you are, Lieutenant Commander. It’s a pity about your sister. She was a fine Captain.” The way Captain Marko says ‘Captain’, as if Marko himself sees himself as better or as an Admiral already, well, Charles feels offended on Cassie’s behalf.

“We didn’t find her,” his son continues blithely, oozing self-satisfied malice. He speaks as if he believes the words he says are enough to frighten Charles into submission. Charles pays him no mind. He is of little threat as compared to Marko who likely orchestrated his son into an officer position.

“But it would be a shame if you were accused of being responsible for all the deaths aboard the USS _Londinium_ all those years ago, wouldn’t it? Think about it Charles. You’re several hundred years into the future and you don’t have anywhere else to go. Let me help you and, in return, you will help me."

Charles distinctly feels like a lamb being lead to slaughter as he reluctantly agrees to play a part in Marko’s diabolical plan.

 

**five.**

The Markos paved the road for his acceptance into Starfleet Academy in San Francisco. Despite the looming figure they attempted to be, the Markos stayed mostly out of his way.

As Francis Marko, Charles keeps to himself. He doesn’t talk to anyone unless necessary. Doesn’t give reason for anyone to start a conversation with him. Everyone is younger, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with stars in their eyes at the very idea of exploring unknown lands. In their minds there only exists theory and simulators and virtual technology, propelled forward by the need to party, getting drunk and hook up with strangers.

Charles feels out of place, and instead makes himself at home in the library. There, amongst the databanks of videos and curious transparent research-holos, he studiously digs through all texts related to the _Londinium_. Every little bit he unearths will be that much closer to finding Erik and the others.

He finds depressingly very little about the survivors.

Despite this, Charles dives into learning with enthusiasm. Three centuries brings with it winds of change. Charles is a model student — he always has been — but the courses hold little enjoyment. The curriculum is hardly recognizable and his enthusiasm for learning and absorbing knowledge like the sponge that he is quickly wanes. The blackmail and expectations of his ‘uncle’ is a factor. The lack of Erik by his side as competition and companionship is another.

The instructors, of course, take notice of him. Only a handful of students have ever elected to take the accelerated route, and even less manage to finish. They see Charles as a rare talent, a diamond of a genius in amongst the rough. _Francis_ , they murmur in the staff rooms between classes, _is a hard worker, a brilliant tactician, and above all else surprisingly seasoned for a young man eager to prove himself_. Without fail at the end of each semester, special commendations were filed away under his name and sent to the Dean. Francis Marko is someone to keep an eye out for. Someone that Starfleet will want to nurture as an officer, and an asset to any Captain that is willing to take him aboard their ship.

At the end of two very lonely years, Charles breathes a sigh of relief when he graduates as Valedictorian in 2249. The uniform has changed and this year it’s a garish salmon red. Erik would have hated it.

Upon the podium, Charles watches disdainfully as the man he calls ‘uncle’ delivers a speech meant to inspire the new graduates into exploring the large expanse of space left uncharted. “The opportunities that await you,” Captain Marko booms at the end of his speech, face shiny and red, “are endless.”

There is polite applause. Charles doesn’t join in.

 

**six.**

It takes him six years to become Captain Francis Marko of the Starship _Cerebro_ (CFX-2011).

 

**Author's Note:**

> My undying love and hob-nobs go to the team of people that helped me out: **Fricorg** for allowing me to use her as a sounding board and betaing, and **Shibs, Red, Di, Q and Roz** for betaing also. c: Cheers you wonderful people!


End file.
